


Always and Forever

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert convinces Valjean to get a new National Guard uniform. For completely unselfish purposes, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always and Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Thank you so much to Stripy for the beta and the much-needed encouragement.

He had been puzzled when Javert first had suggested it; now, as he pulled on the new uniform that had been fitted for him, he felt a little awkward and ill at ease. After all, it would have been just as convenient for him not to return to the National Guard. In the aftermath of the insurrection, nobody would have thought to ask for him. And now that he was happy once more, and safer than he had ever been, now that he was almost beginning to get used to hearing his own name spoken aloud -- and murmured, and gasped, and whispered in his ear late at night -- Jean Valjean wondered if it would not be better to lay Ultime Fauchelevent, National Guard, to rest. 

But Javert had insisted. Valjean should keep his cover, he said. Certainly, there was no immediate danger with Thénardier gone, and Cosette finally having learned about his past, and it was unlikely that anyone would be take notice and be suspicious if Monsieur Fauchelevent disappeared, but one never knew. Why take the risk? It would cost him little. Procure a new uniform, appear at some exercises, maintain his good will with the authorities. It could prove useful. Most certainly it could do no harm. 

So he had caved, and gone to have a new uniform tailored, and again at Javert's suggestion he was now about to try it on in his bedroom. Javert, who had come with him, was standing by the door, looking strangely intent, like a guard on duty. The thought was an unwelcome one, and Valjean hastily pushed it away. 

"You don't have to stay here and watch me try it on," he said, sitting down on the bed to pull on his new leather boots. These, too, were a purchase Javert had talked him into, with the reasoning that his old ones were getting far too worn for a respectable citizen to wear. "It's enough that you came with me to the tailor's."

Javert made a noncommittal noise. "The pleasure was all mine." 

"Even so." The new leather was stiff, and he grimaced as he pulled the boot shafts up his calves. "Surely you must be bored by now."

"If you want me to leave, I shall," Javert said, folding his arms over his chest. "But I am happy to stay."

He could have argued further, but it would be useless, for in all honesty he thought they would both prefer Javert to stay. "Very well, then," Valjean said, relenting. "I'm glad of your company."

As he got to his feet and walked over to where his uniform was lying on the table, he caught a glimpse in the mirror of Javert's smile, the one Valjean knew was for him alone: hesitant, a bit shy, but honest, so unlike those cold, triumphant grins of the police inspector in Montreuil, that man who existed no longer except as a silent spectre in his occasional nightmares. Javert would smile like that, a bit taken aback, every time Valjean said or did something affectionate, as if it still baffled him, as though he couldn't quite believe in this thing they had created between them -- a sentiment Valjean understood well enough, for he often could not grasp it himself. 

He came to stand in front of the mirror with the uniform in his hands, facing himself: a man in his sixties, a fugitive in the guise of a bourgeois, clad in nothing but his trousers and shirt and high black boots. A blank canvas ready to be painted in the state's colours, he thought with faint resentment as he slipped one arm into the uniform jacket. In the mirror, he saw Javert straighten. 

Valjean did each button slowly, following the movement of his fingers in the mirror. He was not certain how to feel about what he saw there. In a way, it was too much like donning an old lie, and yet it was a deception he had not minded back then, a deception which in the end had permitted him to save lives. But he did not expect to go through anything like those June days ever again, and this new uniform seemed too much like an unnecessary expense -- an indulgence, almost, although that hardly seemed the right word for it. 

He raised his head, meeting his own eyes as he slipped the last button through its hole. The uniform fit him well enough, following the outline of his shoulders, chest and waist as if the measurements had been taken yesterday, and he noted with relief that the cold he'd suffered earlier in the year had taken little of his weight, giving Javert no reason to worry. He smoothed down the fabric, new and unsupple with lack of use, and took a step back to look at the man in the mirror from top to toe -- a National Guard, a bourgeois, a citizen, Ultime Fauchelevent once more. But the eyes which met his own belonged to Jean Valjean, and with a shudder he wondered if he had ever been truly able to fool himself. 

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Javert shifting, uncrossing his arms and crossing them again. His expression resembled a frown, but when their eyes met in the mirror, his face coloured. "It suits you," he said.

"It fits, at least," Valjean answered, feeling himself flush slightly in turn. Javert's gaze was strangely piercing, filled with an intensity that such an ordinary act as trying on new garments should not warrrant. Looking back at himself, he wondered if the absurdity of it, the convict disguised as an honest man, was what had struck Javert. The idea was sudden and repulsive, like a mouthful of bile. "I'll take it off," he said, moving to undo the top button.

"No!" Javert coloured even more as Valjean, taken aback by the protest, turned to look at him. "You should wear it for a while. Make sure it holds up for use," he said.

"How long? All day? That would be ridiculous." Valjean turned back to the mirror. Something about Javert's insistence made him self-conscious. "It fits, and that's all I need to know for now."

"You haven't broken it in yet," Javert said. "What if the seams rip open as soon as you move? You cannot trust a Paris tailor. Here --" He gestured towards the desk. "Try lifting something heavy while you wear it, see if it holds."

"It's not workmen's wear," Valjean said. "I doubt I'll be doing much heavy lifting in it." But he went to the desk nonetheless, reasoning that it would do no harm to indulge such a harmless request, no matter how unfounded. 

The desk was too wide for him to get leverage unless he stood at the narrow end, gripping the frame on each side. "Now then," he said, as much to himself as to Javert, as he took hold, breathed deeply, and pulled upwards. It was heavy, certainly, but he had lifted heavier, and there was no sound of seams being ripped. Keeping his hold on the desk, he turned his head in Javert's direction. "Now what?"

"What?" Javert sounded slightly dazed.

"Would you like me to move it or should I just put it back down?" He decided to put it back down regardless; hauling furniture around the room for the sake of it would be even more pointless than what he was doing now. "At any rate, the uniform holds up well enough."

"Yes," Javert said. "Very much so. That is... Maybe you should lift something heavier, just to be safe."

"I'll lift you next, then." He'd meant it as a joke, but from the way the flush returned to Javert's face he suspected it hadn't been taken as such. Hastily, he bent down to inspect his boots. "I should take these off, at least. They'll need greasing."

"I'll do it." 

He looked up, surprised. Javert looked surprised at himself too, but he held Valjean's gaze defiantly. "The grease is in the drawer, yes?"

"Yes, but..." 

Before he could think of a way to voice his protests gently -- it wasn't necessary; he could do it himself in the afternoon -- Javert had moved to retrieve the jar of grease. What happened next, astonished Valjean into silence: Javert, jar in hand, dropped to his knees in front of him, then rolled up his sleeves. "Your back to the wall," he said, a hint of brisk command in his voice.

Again, it seemed unreasonable to deny Javert such a small thing, no matter how ridiculous. Soon he found himself leaning against the wall, Javert kneeling in front of him. 

"This would be easier if I wasn't wearing the boots," Valjean muttered, glancing down.

Javert didn't reply. There was something distant in his eyes as he rubbed the grease into the black leather, as his large hands slid up and down Valjean's calves with slow, almost languid motions. His ministrations felt good, somehow better than they ought to. Valjean glanced sideways, into the mirror on the wall to his right. 

He saw himself leaning against the wall, uniformed, and Javert in front of him, carefully caressing his legs through the high black boots. Something about the scene was disturbingly sensual. But that couldn't be true -- or could it?

And then he put it all together: the look on Javert's face, his flushed cheeks, his absentminded behaviour. He thought of the way Javert's eyes had followed him so intently as he pulled on his boots, as he buttoned up his uniform, and for a moment the realisation took his breath away. Then he almost wanted to laugh. Had _this_ been the reason behind Javert's insistence all along?

Acutely self-conscious, he looked away from the mirror, and his breath hitched in his throat at the sight of Javert on his knees before him, his large hands gripping Valjean's calves, his face still flushed but his eyes dark with determination. When their gazes met, there was a long moment of recognition. Valjean felt a shiver go down his back. 

Javert swallowed visibly. "So," he said.

"Yes." Valjean wet his lips, aware of the way Javert's eyes darted to his mouth, the way his hands tightened their grip. 

"I'd like to," he said, nodding a little towards Valjean's groin. "If you'd let me..."

Valjean could only nod. He let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes as Javert opened his trousers with trembling yet unhesitant fingers, as Javert gently freed him from the fabric, stroking him to hardness with warm hands that were smooth from the grease. 

And even as he gave in to Javert's desire and his own, even as his fingers carded through Javert's hair, as he found himself letting out needy, helpless noises, trying not to thrust into Javert's open, panting mouth, he wondered what Javert was seeing: a respectable citizen, a convict in disguise? A man whose uniform robbed him of characteristics, a man who could have been anyone, any object of Javert's desire...

It was a painful thought, and yet strangely freeing. He looked sideways again and caught sight of himself in the mirror, still clad in the uniform, pressed to the wall, Javert on his knees in front of him. He saw his own face, flushed and lascivious, eyes half closed in abandonment, his mouth open.

"Javert," he gasped, trembling, as much at the sight as at his own animal need, for in this moment he seemed a stranger to himself. "Javert, I'm going to..."

Javert pulled away then, looking up at him with eyes that were as wild as Valjean felt. "Say it," he said. "Say it and then do it."

Valjean shut his eyes against the surge of heat inside him, even as the vulgarity of the request made him wince. He did not know if he could bring himself to say such a thing -- but a soldier might have, he thought; another man could do it if Jean Valjean could not, another man could say those things Javert wanted to hear. 

He cradled Javert's face, running his thumb along his cheekbone, the gesture as tender as he could make it. Then he moved his hand into Javert's hair and took hold, not hard, not to hurt, just enough for Javert to feel it.

"I'm going to come," he said, surprised at how easy it was, as if someone or something else had taken over his mind and spoken the words for him. "In your mouth. And you're going to take it, everything I give you, and you're going to swallow. All of it."

Javert let out a loud, choked groan, his eyes sliding shut, his cheeks hollowing as he furiously worked Valjean's swollen flesh. He let go of Valjean's hip with his right hand, sliding it down between his own legs, and at the sight Valjean trembled, and let out a groan of his own, and gave himself over entirely.

And Javert did as he had been told; Javert did not pull away from him but took it all, eagerly, greedily, his eyes still closed in what looked like ecstasy, and Valjean could not let go of his hair, not until the waves of pleasure calmed and left him stranded there, slumped against the wall, panting and overcome and shocked by himself.

He pulled his hand away, and at that Javert opened his eyes to look at him. For a second, his gaze was open and tender; then as if he'd seen something in Valjean's face that worried him, his eyes took on a wary look. "Valjean?" he said.

Valjean had to close his eyes again against that gaze. A shudder ran through him. "I didn't let you move away," he whispered, rubbing his hand against his thigh as if that would change anything. "Did I hurt you?"

"Hurt me? No." Javert shook his head, some of the wariness leaving his eyes.. "You never have. You..." His hand, which had withdrawn for a moment, again came to rest on Valjean's hip. "You gave me what I wanted," he said, then glanced, flushing downwards, at his own groin, where a stain betrayed that he too had found his release. "As you always do."

Valjean felt exhausted all of a suden. He slid down to sit with his back to the wall, so that they were face to face. Then he reached out, a wordless plea, and Javert scrambled to sit next to him, sliding his arm behind the small of his back so that Valjean could lean against him. He felt he should perhaps offer some reassurance to Javert in turn, but did not know what to say. He gently rested his head on Javert's shoulder and kept quiet. 

They sat there in silence for some minutes. Then Javert huffed a laugh, kissing the top of Valjean's head. "In the middle of the day," he said softly. "What shameless creatures we have become."

The words, the careful attempt at a jest, unlocked something within him, and he found himself relaxing into Javert's embrace. "It was your doing," he murmured. "I was only going to try on my new uniform."

"I shouldn't be blamed for having such thoughts," Javert whispered in his ear, his free hand stroking over Valjean's chest. Valjean shivered. "Look at you in that uniform. You are stunning. I almost threw myself at you as soon as you put it on."

Valjean let his head fall back a little, into the crook of Javert's neck. "When have I ever said no to you?" Javert let out a low sound at the words, and Valjean shivered again. 

"You indulge me too much," Javert said, sliding his hand down to Valjean's waist. "Though I do not regret making you join the Guard once more -- no. That was a wise thing to do. But I am not an unselfish man. When you lifted that desk... God." He let out a small, hoarse laugh. "I am beginning to have second thoughts about letting those other guards see you." 

"Don't be foolish." But he could not help but smile. Even so, there was something that bothered him still.

"Javert," he said very quietly. "I am no different when I put on that uniform. I am the same man, always. Do you understand?"

There was a pause, long enough to make him tense. Then, Javert's breath against his temple, a deep sigh. "And you ask if you have hurt _me_ ," he muttered, so quietly that Valjean almost didn't hear it. Somewhat louder: "No, I don't think I understand. But I fear I have caused you distress."

"No distress, it's simply..." He swallowed, uncertain how to phrase it. How easier wouldn't it be to say nothing, to not risk doing harm with the wrong words! But he owed Javert this attempt at clarification. "I can say the things you want to hear, but I am the one saying them. I do not know who you want me to be, but I can only be myself, now that I am learning to be myself again. Whether I wear this uniform or not, I am Jean Valjean, always. Do you see now?"

Another long pause. He raised his head to see Javert looking at him, fondly, tenderly, a bit puzzled -- and then, again that smile, awkward, tentative, as vulnerable as a seedling new to the world.

"Always," Javert said, "and forever." He leaned in to kiss Valjean properly, breathing hot and earnest against his mouth, sliding his hand down his chest until it rested over his heart. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."


End file.
